


i know how much it matters to you

by backofthefront



Series: my heart's an autoclave [1]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, BDSM, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Miscommunication, Power Dynamics, Relationship Issues, Under-negotiated Kink, dubcon maybe? everyone is uncomfortable because theyre bad at Love and Talking, if youre looking for happy fun times its not here, kinda? like implied? a lot is offscreen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 12:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10639752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backofthefront/pseuds/backofthefront
Summary: It's a game of pitting someone else's desires versus your own reservations. There are no winners.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title from daddy issues by the neighbourhood (it fits ok!!). 
> 
> if you're the type of person that needs super specific warnings i would avoid the whole series b/c there's little aside from uncomfortable relationships and kink and psych issues 
> 
> this is also a prequel. 'never ask for help, rather go to hell' does not need to be read to understand this, and vice versa.

 

Washington was a man who preferred the afterglow more than the act that preceded it. He was a stoic man, even while making love. Not verbal, not expressive- especially not when compared to his Alexander, writhing and moaning beneath him, or, on rare occasions, on top of him. Washington was simply a man who never lost his cool, even in the throes of pleasure. Lying there after he was done, though, a different sort of George could be glimpsed. Sweaty limbs entangled with his lover’s, sheets wrapped around their bodies, his marble exterior would crack. 

Just now, a soft smile played on his lips. He stared up at the ceiling, where the fan spins with a spluttering whir of noise. One hand rests on his own stomach, the other is curled around the shoulders of a panting, exhausted Alexander. Alex’s face was tucked into Washington’s chest. He could feel Alex’s little puffs of breath against his skin, a spot of warm in contrast to the relatively cold air in the bedroom. 

Alex blinked lazily, shifting his head to turn his gaze to Washington. George moved his arm accordingly. Alex made a soft noise- had George been asked to describe it, and had he been in a certain acquiescence, amused mood, he would have described it as a disgruntled kitten, which described Alex aptly. 

George raised his eyebrows, expectant. 

“Yes?” He tried not to let the concern bleed into his voice. Alex hated when George displayed anything Alex could interpret as pity. George tried his best to respect that, walking on eggshells around his lover’s ego.

“Nothin’,” Alex mumbled. He smiled, a baby-deer soft rare thing, unlike his public smile, more of a smirk, really. The shit-eating grin when he won an argument with Jefferson. The smirk, bordering a snarl, when he managed to raise Burr’s hackles with some stupid office prank. Those were impenetrable facades, still wholly Alex, but a more hardy side. The smile he tried to bury in George’s chest was a vulnerability, and George was torn between joy that Alex even allowed his guard down that much near George, and hurt that Alex so rarely let this show, and even now smothered that happiness- the puppy dog love George bestowed on him- into his skin. 

“That was good.” Alex mumbled into George’s skin, the reverberations a straight shot to his heart.

Alex sighed, apparently drifting towards sleep. George just kept watching him doze off affectionately.  

“I love you, son.” 

Washington regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. 

Alex recoiled, as if Washington’s touch had burned him. “I told you not to call me that!” he snapped. He sat upright, pulling away from Washington. George’s skin was too cool, bordering ice, where the air hit. A shiver went up his spine, a lack-of-Alex iciness. 

George immediately looked wounded, eyes searching Alex’s uncomfortably, brow furrowed, mouth downturned. 

“I’m sorry. You had seemed to like it a second ago, and I thought-”

“Doesn’t matter.” Alex had sprung up out of the bed, and was now grappling with his shirt. He had tossed it on the floor in his haste earlier, and had it halfway on before, realizing it was still turned inside out, he let out a feral growl and had to take it off again. 

 

George didn’t know what to say. He was a man of few words, but carefully chosen ones, and when something he said struck an unintended nerve he always made sure to apologize. His mother had taught him that, though she hadn’t intended to. It was one of those learn-by-bad-example type of things. 

His mind hummed with nonononono and sorrysorrysorrysorry and butbutbut. None of it right; none of it would make Alex forgive him. 

“I should have respected what you said. But I… I thought things had changed.” 

Alex, sirt now on and working on tugging up his dark-wash skinny jeans, just grunted. This, though, less resembled a kitten and more of a vaguely pissed off collegiate. Not too far off the mark, that, either. 

“I mean it when I say it. It’s not a platitude. I love you.” 

Alex didn’t acknowledge anything, still. George felt his lips acting as a shovel, digging a bigger and bigger chasm between them. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you as much- er, as hard as you wanted. But I love you, damn it Alex!” George tossed the sheet off, climbed out of the bed. He towered over Alex when he faced him. 

“I want to make love to you! Not everything is a goddamn competition! If you would let go of your martyr complex you could see that some people actually do care about you!” George closed his eyes, breathed in deep. “You think you’re the only one with daddy issues?” he spat. 

 

Alex, hands shaking, turned to George with a furious glint in his eyes. 

 

“Fuck you, Washington. I don’t need you or your goddamn sympathy, and I certainly don’t need a fucking psychiatric evaluation. I got enough of those in the foster care system.” 

He grabbed his satchel from its home by the door of George’s room and shoved his feet in his shoes, the whole time deliberately avoiding looking in George’s direction.

 

Alex had his hand on the knob and stared at it like he was trying to bore a hole into it or melt the whole door with laser vision. He did not look up when he spoke. 

“Next time I start sleeping with my boss, I’ll at least pick one who doesn’t pretend to care.” 

Alex had asked George to hurt him physically, not emotionally. He considered himself above emotional attachment anyway, and George’s words had harpooned through Alex’s carefully constructed walls and pierced his heart. This all hung in the air, unspoken, unacknowledged. 

Alex stormed out the door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the whole frame.  

 

George stared at the door, knowing he wouldn’t return. Even if, like an abandoned puppy, Alex crawled back home to George, Alex would hate himself for it. Alex burned bridges. He didn’t apologize; he didn’t grovel; he didn’t ever ask for what he needed. 

 

Except he had. He asked George. He had trusted George enough to ask for something incredibly personal, and George hadn’t had the balls to do it. 

He mentally replayed the encounter that had just passed, analyzing everything he had done, or hadn’t done. George had been rougher than usual, had said some things he was barely comfortable saying, and some things he had enjoyed a little too much to be comfortable with- and. And Alex had seemed happy. More stated than usual. But it hadn’t been what he wanted. George hadn’t even been able to give him that.  

He scrubbed his hands over his face, inwardly wincing. He couldn’t give Alex what he needed- no, a voice in the back of his head insisted- wouldn’t. He wouldn’t fuck him like he liked, like a pair of… Of animals. No matter how much Alex begged, George, selfishly, just didn’t want to degrade him like that. Part of him wanted to give Alex everything- undying praise, lavish gifts, nothing was too extravagant for his Angel Boy. But he could only give what Alex would take. 

George moaned. How could he fuck up so badly? He just wanted to make Alex happy. Maybe, inherently, that was selfish. Was it wrong to whisper sweet somethings into the juncture between his thighs, press kisses into his collarbone, tell him how beautiful he was, if Alex didn’t want that? Alex didn’t like to think himself delicate, but he was. George could respect the way he wanted to be treated, or he could do as he saw fit and treat him like a treasure, which, in George’s eyes, he was. Either way, George came out the monster. The bad guy. 

  
God, he had been so stupid. 


End file.
